Blasphemy

mathematical notation, this number—the first God number—is:

This is the length of time in years it will take for the universe to think itself into the final state, to arrive at the ultimate answer.

“That’s an absurdly large number!”

It is but a drop in the great ocean of infinity.

Where is the role of morality, of ethics, in this brave new universe of yours?“ Ford asked. ”Or salvation and the forgiveness of sins?“

I repeat again: separateness is but an illusion. Human beings are like cells in a body. Cells die, but the body lives on. Hatred, cruelty, war, and genocide are more like autoimmune diseases than the product of something you call “evil.” This vision of connectedness I offer you provides a rich moral field of action, in which altruism, compassion, and responsibility for one another play a central role. Your fate is one fate. Human beings will prevail together or die together. No one is saved because no one is lost. No one is forgiven because no one is accused.

“What about God’s promise to us of a better world?”

Your various concepts of heaven are remarkably obtuse.

“Excuse me, but salvation is anything but obtuse!”

The vision of spiritual completion I offer you is immeasurably grander than any heaven dreamed on earth.

“What about the soul? Do you deny the existence of the immortal soul?”

“Wyman, please!” Hazelius cried. “You’re wasting everyone’s time with these ridiculous theological questions!”

“Excuse me, but I think they’re vital questions,” said Kate. “These are the questions people will ask—and which we better be able to answer.”

We? Ford wondered who Kate meant.

Information is never lost. With the death of the body, the information created by that life changes shape and structure, but it is never lost. Death is an informational transition. Do not fear it.

“Do we lose our individuality at death?” Ford asked.

Do not mourn the loss. From that powerful sense of individuality, so necessary for evolution, flows many of the qualities that haunt human existence, good and bad: fear, pain, suffering, and loneliness, as well as love, happiness, and compassion. That is why you must escape your biochemical existence. When you free yourselves from the tyranny of the flesh, you will take the good—love, happiness, compassion, and altruism—with you. You will leave behind the bad.

“I don’t find much uplift in the idea that the little quantum fluctuations my existence has generated will somehow give us immortality,” said Ford sarcastically.

You should find great solace in this view of life. Information in the universe cannot die. Not one step, not one memory, not one sorrow in your life is ever forgotten. You as an individual will be lost in the storm of time, your molecules dispersed. But who you were, what you did, how you lived, will always remain embedded in the universal computation.

“Forgive me, but it still sounds so mechanistic, so soulless, this talk of existence as ‘computation.’ ”

Call it dreaming, if you prefer, or desiring, willing, thinking. Everything you see is part of an unimaginably vast and beautiful computation, from a baby speaking its first words to a star collapsing into a black hole. Our universe is a gorgeous computation that, starting with a single axiom of great simplicity, has been running for thirteen billion years. We have hardly begun the adventure! When you find a way to shift your own meat-limited process of thinking to other natural quantum systems, you will begin to control the computation. You will begin to understand its beauty and perfection.

“If everything is a computation, then what is the purpose of intelligence? Of mind?”

Intelligence exists all around you, even in nonliving processes. A thunderstorm is a computation vastly more sophisticated than a human mind. It is, in its own way, intelligent.

“A thunderstorm has no consciousness. A human mind has awareness of self. It’s conscious. That’s the difference, and it isn’t trivial.”

Did I not tell you that the very consciousness of self is an illusion, an artifact of evolution? The difference is not even trivial.

“A weather system isn’t creative. It doesn’t make choices. It can’t think. It’s merely the mechanistic unfolding of forces.”

How do you know you are not the mechanistic unfolding of forces? Like the mind, a weather system contains complex chemical, electrical, and mechanical properties. It is thinking. It is creative. Its thoughts are different from your thoughts. A human being creates complexity by writing a novel on the surface of paper; a weather system creates complexity by writing waves on the surface of an ocean. What is the difference between the information carried in the words of a novel and the information carried on the waves of the sea? Listen, and the waves will speak, and someday, I tell you, you will write your thoughts on the surface of the sea.

“So what’s the universe computing?” Innes continued angrily. “What’s this great problem it’s trying to solve?”

That is the deepest and most wonderful mystery of all.

“Perimeter alarms,” said Wardlaw. “We have an intruder.”

Hazelius turned. “Don’t tell me that preacher’s back.”

“No, no . . . God, no. Dr. Hazelius, you better come look.”

Ford and the rest followed Hazelius over to the security station. They peered over Wardlaw’s shoulder at the wall of screens.

“What the hell?” Hazelius asked.

Wardlaw punched a series of buttons. “I shouldn’t have been paying attention to whatever the hell that crazy thing on the screen was saying. Look, I’m rewinding. Here’s where it starts. A chopper . . . a military Black Hawk UH-60A, landing at the airfield.”

They all stood and watched—astonished. Ford could see men in dark jumpsuits, carrying weapons, tumbling from the chopper.

“They’re breaking into the hangars,” Wardlaw went on, “taking our Humvees. Loading them up . . . Now they’re bashing down the gates to the security zone . . . . That’s what set off the alarm. Okay, real time begins right here.”

Ford watched as the soldiers, or whatever they were, jumped from the Humvees and fanned out, weapons at the ready.

“What’s going on? What the hell are they doing?” cried Hazelius, his voice full of alarm.

“They’re establishing a classic assault perimeter,” said Wardlaw.

“Assault? On what?”

“On us.”

55

RUSS EDDY CROUCHED BEHIND A JUNIPER tree and peered out into the fenced security area. The men in black had bashed down the security fence and were busy setting up lights and unloading equipment from a pair of Humvees. He had no doubt these men had been sent to protect the Isabella project in response to his letter. It was too much of a coincidence to be otherwise. Paramilitary forces of the New World Order who had arrived in black helicopters, just as Mark Koernke predicted.

Eddy knew that his letter had reached those in power.

He made careful note of how many there were, what weapons and equipment they carried, jotting everything down in his notebook.

The soldiers finished rigging up a string of portable lights and the area was bathed in brilliant white light. Eddy shrank back in the shadows and retreated to the road. He had seen enough. The army of God would soon begin arriving—and he needed to organize them.

As he walked back toward the far edge of the mesa, where the Dugway came up on top, that plan began to take shape. First, they would need a parking and staging area far enough away from Isabella so they could amass without being seen. They had to group themselves, organize, then attack. And, in fact, right at the top of the